


Of Red Flags and Crimson Banners

by queer_cheer



Category: The Man in the High Castle (TV)
Genre: Angst, Erich gets promoted and doesn't know how to feel about it, Erich is secretly gay and in love, Friendship, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, John gets hurt, M/M, Nazis, Other, Violence, probably considered AU, somewhat awkward work relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-24
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-18 07:19:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11286390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queer_cheer/pseuds/queer_cheer
Summary: They should've seen it coming.In which the celebration Erich never wanted goes very, very wrong.





	Of Red Flags and Crimson Banners

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sassmaster_tiresias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sassmaster_tiresias/gifts).



> For the hurt meme thing, "I know it hurts, but you have to stay awake." 
> 
> Enjoy! x

There wasn’t a day that went by that Erich didn’t think about it. Sometimes, he thought of it more than once. First, when he slid his shirt over four identical scars, like craters in his chest, and then again, when he stripped down at the end of the day and stared at himself in the mirror.

Some feelings, he’d learned, you can’t explain. Taking a bullet three millimeters from the heart just so happened to be one of them. 

It was like drowning, falling, and burning alive all at once, but that was only the beginning. Pain was a force relative to time and circumstance; no matter the ache, there was solace to be found within the fact that it would inevitably end, either in wellness or in death. Nothing is forever, and that -- the double entendre -- was what left him lying awake at night in a cold, shaky sweat: The emptiness, like stepping away from life and into an abyss of unending night. The hollow oblivion of death and dying. The promise of nothing, forever. It haunted him, and it made pain feel like child’s play. _That_ was the part he could never quite explain. 

Not like he ever tried. It wasn’t exactly the kind of discourse one should bring up at lavish parties and formal dinners, and it was only then, at social events, that he was ever drunk enough to want to talk about it in the first place. A vicious cycle, he mused. Vicious and unbreakable.

Outside, the air was cold. Winter was coming upon them fast and there was no use denying it. The sidewalk behind of the banquet hall looked like it hadn’t seen much traffic since the weather turned, and for once, Erich was glad to be alone. It was a nice break from the crowds of officers swarming to congratulating him on what was essentially a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He’d grown tired of smiling and nodding, acting gracious and excited about his new, sleek-black uniform. The promotion was a big deal, they said. He was a hero, they said. He saved the obergruppenführer’s life. He didn’t really know if that part was true, but if it was, it was the only thing that really mattered.

Behind him, the door swung open. Erich turned to find John Smith with his back pressed against the stone wall, a cigarette balanced between two fingers. His eyes drifted shut when he sucked in a breath of smoke, and when he let it out, the tension melted from his shoulders. 

“Really needed that cigarette, sir?” Erich smiled and joined him, lighting a bud of his own. “You alright?” 

“I’ve never been a fan of crowds, believe it or not,” John chuckled wryly. “I’ve been trying to escape for the past half-hour.” 

“Seems strange for a man in the public eye,” 

“You’re one to talk, _Sturmbannführer_ ,” John’s lips twitched into a grin. “This is your banquet, and you’re standing out here alone.” 

“If I may speak freely, sir,” Erich lifted an eyebrow, and when John laughed and gestured broadly for him to continue, he sighed. “It feels like much ado about nothing.”

“It’s hardly nothing, Erich. You acted valiantly. You-”

“All I did was get shot, for God’s sake!” Erich hissed, and then added a sheepish, hangdog, “…sir.” 

The look that came across John’s face was unlike any expression Erich had ever seen him wear. It blended concern and understanding in a way that seemed foreign for his stone-faced, stoic commander. 

“Sometimes, Erich,” John spoke through the cigarette perched between his lips. “That’s all it takes.”

“Everyone is congratulating me,” Erich blew out a cloud of smoke. “But for what? For surviving? If anything, you were the one who--”

“I owe you my life, Erich,” John silenced him with that toothy, boyish smile that made every woman in New York swoon. Every woman and the newly-appointed Sturmbannführer Raeder, that is.

Taking Erich’s silence as a cue, John continued.

“I think you’re overthinking it. Or perhaps, not thinking it enough. Whether you believe it or not, your quick thinking under what I can only imagine was immense pressure saved both of our lives. I was out of bullets and out of options, Erich, and you…” He paused to search for the perfect word. “You reacted when I couldn’t.” 

“Don’t sell yourself short, sir,” Erich snubbed his cigarette’s smoldering cherry against the wall. “You know, I think--”

Tires screeched against the pavement, interrupting Erich and shattering the nighttime’s composed stillness. John’s hand locked around Erich’s arm in a gesture of either protection or security – perhaps both. He yanked him closer to the wall, closer to his side, as disembodied voices drew nearer and shots rang out before Erich could even think to grab the gun from his waist. 

For the shortest second, reality blurred into a fuzzy mess of shapes and things that didn’t quite fit together. The universe, for all that it was, felt suddenly sentient, and with every breath it stole the air from Erich’s lungs. All it took, though, was the sound of a bullet whipping past his ear to remind him where he was, who he was, and what he was willing to do.

John had his free hand on his gun, aiming at the car roaring down the narrow street, heading straight towards them. He pulled his trigger once, twice, and then Erich’s ears were ringing and he was following suit. Glass shattered, someone screamed. For all Erich knew, it could’ve been him. He would’ve called it chaos, but _chaos_ was too kind a word.

And then, in the blink of an eye, it was over. As fast as the madness had come, it was gone. It left nothing in its wake but a car, stalled and smoking barely ten feet away, and a round, ruddy-faced man bleeding out in the driver’s seat.

“What the fuck was—shit.” Erich hadn’t realized how tight John’s white-knuckled grasp had gotten until he turned to him and saw the color draining from his cheeks. He staggered down to one knee, his gun slipping from his hand as he clutched at his chest. Crimson tinged his fingers, a wordless cry escaped his lips, and Erich found himself wondering just how many times a man could cheat death.

“You’re going to be fine,” Erich sat him down and tilted his head forward. John spit blood into his lap, and as officers poured out of the building and surrounded them, a siren wailed in the distance. “Hear that? An ambulance is coming.” 

Just a few minutes, Erich reassured himself to combat his quickening pulse, his trembling hands. Just a few minutes and John would be in the hands of trained people, people who knew what the hell they were supposed to do, people who earned their rankings by acting, not reacting.

Only a few minutes, but until then, John gasped out his name in between two coughing fits, and his fingers started to slip away from his wrist. 

Erich squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think. What had he learned in training, in Hitler Youth, in the goddamn boy scouts!? Anything would help, he thought. Any information. All eyes were on him and, more importantly, _John’s_ eyes were on him.

“You have to stay awake,” Erich shook his shoulders hard. John pressed his hand against his chest and made a sound Erich could only describe as a whimper. “I know it hurts,” He shook him again. “But you have to stay awake.”

The next thing he knew, strong arms were pulling him up and away from John as a swarm clad in medical blues descended upon him. The siren, deafeningly loud, rang in Erich’s ears. Someone clapped him on the shoulder. Another set of hands took hold of his and offered a firm shake. They spoke to him, but it was hard to hear over the sound of his blood pulsing in his ears.

It was the most forged, counterfeit set of interactions he’d ever had the displeasure of experiencing. None of it really mattered. Titles and uniforms and gunshot wounds to the chest were all background elements compared to the crushing weight he felt, the fear, and the longing. And yet it was as if it was instinct to lean into it all, to stand in the steady, silent solidarity of his battalion, arm raised in salute as the ambulance drove off into the distance. 

His hands felt heavy with John’s blood, and his stomach felt sick.

Once again, the world was turned on its side. If he’d ever really been sure of anything, it was that John Smith was a good man. But good men didn’t die in alleyways on the eve of winter. 

He didn’t think that the tingling in the tips of his fingers or the sudden tightness in his chest could be put into words. It was another one of those feelings, like grief wrapped in anger wrapped in fear, that he just couldn’t explain.


End file.
